


i'm your national anthem

by Idday



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: Jack Eichel: First Son, national disappointment, political liability.HRH Price Connor of Canada: Royal spare, international sweetheart, careful enigma.…Or: "Jack," she says, "try not to cause another international incident by thinking with your dick."
Relationships: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
Comments: 114
Kudos: 529





	i'm your national anthem

**Author's Note:**

> am i quarantining right yet? writing the red white & royal blue fusion that nobody asked for??
> 
> I know the season is postponed and all but if you're here reading this and you know somebody in this, just. plz don't.

“I don’t want to be here,” Jack says out loud. Toronto, in January, is gray and wet and fucking freezing. Washington D.C. in January, by contrast, is simply gray and wet. 

Since he’s alone in the backseat of a hulking black SUV, he doesn’t get an answer. He does text the same thing to both his sister and Noah, the former of whom answers, _then you shouldn’t have pushed a prince into a wedding cake worth more than most people’s cars, _and the latter of whom doesn’t deign to respond at all. 

_ Again, _Jack sends back to his sister, _not my fault. _

She sends back a shrugging emoji, but also an: _I know, kiddo. Hang in there. _

Jack doesn’t bother to text back. Jess is busy today—as always—with a series of carefully planned appearances and speeches and fundraisers, and he’s lucky to have caught her free at all. Also, the car has pulled to a stop in front of his destination and his security escort has pulled the door to the SUV open. 

The wind blows forbiddingly. They’ve sent an aide out with an umbrella to protect him from the snow, but each gust threatens to blow it inside out. 

“You can put that away,” Jack sighs, “I’m not sugar. I won’t melt.” 

The last time he was here was, memorably, exactly one week ago. Just as it was for Prince Cameron’s royal wedding, the palace is huge and ornate and startlingly incongruous with the rest of the modern city, a relic of its centuries-old history. 

The boy waiting for him inside is just as much an outdated relic, though a few hundred years younger. Jack doesn’t have a single advantage in this situation. He’s arriving wet and cold, on foreign ground, expected to grovel. 

Unbidden, his sister’s words return to him. _Then you shouldn’t have pushed a prince into a wedding cake worth more than most people’s cars. _

Jack grits his teeth and pushes out into the cold air, striding forward with as much dignity as he can still muster under the circumstances. 

It wasn’t so much a push as an ill-timed fumble, not that it matters now. Just one in a long series of public faux pas that Jack’s committed in the three years since his mother was elected and the eyes of the nation never stopped turning his way, always disapproving. 

He does try his best, not that America believes it. Not that anyone but Jess and Noah and occasionally—very occasionally—his parents believe it. 

Things just never seem to go quite to plan. 

The prince is, of course, looking polished and flawless. Jack has no doubts that there exists somewhere in this sprawling palace a whole team of people whose jobs consist entirely of making sure that the prince always looks polished and flawless and constantly in stark contrast to common plebes like Jack. They've been hard at work this morning—his skin is smooth and blemish-free, his golden hair swooping effortlessly away from his face, his navy suit pressed and perfectly tailored. His hand, when he offers it to Jack, is warm and well-manicured. 

Jack fucking hates him. 

“Hello, Jack,” the prince says in his soft, deep voice. He could read the most exciting book ever written and put Jack to sleep. 

“Hello,” Jack grits out, and because his life isn’t fair and he’s been drilled in etiquette over the past week, he’s not even allowed to use the prince’s first name in turn. “It’s an honor, your Highness.” 

Jack’s abruptly aware of the way his face is probably red from the cold, hair standing up in coiled tufts from the nap he took on the plane. He’s underdressed in his jeans, even though they’re his nicest pair. 

“Not at all,” the prince says smoothly, “the honor is all mine.” 

If Jack didn’t already know that was a lie, the way his hand tightens around Jack’s would tell him everything he needed to know. His voice doesn’t waver, though, and Jack almost envies how easy the prince finds it to lie. Almost. 

A week ago, it was this same voice, this same dull, constant perfection, that drove Jack from his table and over to the younger prince, stationed just between the open bar and the glittering cake stand. Jack had had perhaps one too many to drink. Even on his best day, he resents the prince—how seamlessly he fills his role, how easily he shines in the spotlight when it’s his turn but more often defers it to his older brother, his mother, his grandmother the Queen. How obviously he’s detested Jack since he first came to the attention of the world as a spotty, awkward teen on his mother’s campaign trail. 

And on Jack’s worst day, forced to attend a stodgy wedding in a foreign country with no date and Jess in Dubai and out of even texting range, he couldn’t resist the urge to approach. Since the first time they met at that ill-fated Olympic hockey game, Jack’s wanted to see if he could get the prince to crack, if only for a second. 

They’d almost avoided catastrophe, too. The conversation was snarky on Jack’s side and politely annoyed on the prince’s, but they’d almost escaped unscathed. Almost—until a couple had waltzed too close as Jack turned to leave, forcing him to stumble back into the prince and toppling them both into the cake stand. 

The bride had cried. The president—much later—had shouted. And now here Jack is, preparing to make reparations. 

His orders are simple: convince the world of the story that his mother is selling it with the full cooperation of the Canadian palace. That story being that Jack has been friends, close friends, _best _friends, with the prince for years now. That one unfortunate moment of youthful revelry had gone too far, that the best of bros had simply been over-served and exuberant in reunion and had caused an unfortunate, but in no way malicious, ruckus. 

That’s why, when the prince says, “call me Connor,” Jack has no choice but to force a grin that feels rigid on his face. 

“Good to see you again, Connor,” he lies. 

The worst part: when they’d been lying on the floor, covered in frosting, with the eyes of the ballroom and the world on them, Jack had seen for the first time an expression of true hatred on the prince’s face. 

It hadn’t even been satisfying. 

… 

They have a carefully coordinated and closely scheduled day ahead of them. First a media appearance that will be simulcast on “Good Morning America,” then a visit to the children’s hospital, all capped off by a Leafs game in the evening, and Jack will be on a plane back home before midnight. 

He wouldn’t mind the last two things so much, except that Connor’s going to be with him the whole time. He’s going to have to fake it, better than Connor, and Jack hates lying. 

He also hates Connor. 

He also hates the Toronto fucking Maple Leafs. 

The studio is a short drive from the palace. Jack avoids looking at Connor by pretending to be engrossed in his text chain with Noah, who still isn’t answering. In class, maybe, like the overachiever he is. Or just ignoring Jack like the asshole he also is. Connor just looks out the window like the blocky buildings and swirling flurries are the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. 

There’s a garage that the driver pulls into. Jack tries not to take it personally that now that the prince is with him, he’s shuffled from warm, dry car into warm, dry building without any treks through the snow. 

They try to get him to change, which is a no-go. This outfit was carefully selected and focus-group tested before he left Washington—being too formal goes against his carefully curated persona, so the jeans stay. The stylist takes one look at his hair and flushes pink before he has the grace to say, “it’s fine, you don’t have to bother.” 

“I can try—" she says hesitantly, and it’s not her fault he inherited the genes of some long-dead and often-cursed curly-headed ancestor instead of his parents’ perfectly respectable ones, so he forces a smile and says, “it’s as good as it’s going to get, I promise.” 

Connor’s watching him, which grates. He’s in a pressed suit and his hair is still perfect. They don’t even powder his nose, and they spend ten minutes trying to blend concealer into Jack’s cheeks so he doesn’t look so ruddy on film. 

Jack wonders what Connor’s words are. Before his mother was elected, they spent thousands surveying voters about how they viewed the family—his mother got “competent” and his father got “approachable” and Jess got “smart” and “ambitious” and “poised.” 

Jack got likened more to an overzealous frat bro or a constantly irritated cat, depending on the voter. Occasionally—very occasionally—a ‘charming’ or ‘outspoken,’ which the media team had taken to mean, “dumbass, and not afraid to show it.” They’ve spent many more thousands of dollars in the years since media training him while simultaneously encouraging him to shut the fuck up most of the time and lean into the charming bit when that’s not a possibility. 

Connor probably gets words like “pride of the nation” and “hope of the people” and “pretty in a suit.” 

The hosts are nice enough, in a plastic sort of way. Jack plasters on a grin and shakes their hand and sits on the couch six inches too close to Connor trying to remember to_ smile but not in that creepy way _and _don’t ever use words like ‘wicked’ on camera. _Connor is genial and pleasant and knows exactly when to button and unbutton his suit jacket in a way that Jack’s never figured out. 

The conversation doesn’t take a lot of deep thought, thank god. Jack’s memorized his talking points, and Connor chimes in every once in a while with a sheepish grin and a, “yes, I _did _apologize to my sister-in-law. But she’s so understanding about things like this.” 

They pull through mostly unscathed, including the moment where Jack follows script and throws his arm around Connor’s shoulder and grins and Connor does _ not _follow script by laughing a deep chuckle and leaning into his side and putting his hand an inch too high on Jack’s thigh. 

Then it’s off to the children’s hospital, where they pause to force smiles with arms around each other outside the building for a flurry of pre-meditated photo-ops. 

Jack may be the only person in recorded history who has breathed a sigh of relief stepping into a children’s cancer ward. The fact that even Connor’s shoulders relax a little as they step through the door, flanked only by their security, no media allowed, makes him feel marginally better. 

The thing is—Jack _likes _children. They’re honest and non-judgmental and occasionally little assholes, all of which he can identify with. And children like him. Children, in Jack’s experience, enter his life for things like the White House egg roll and reading periods at local schools and occasional meet-and-greets where he can show them tricks like that false brick outside the Oval Office. Children _like _the fact that he’s equally honest and asshole-ish. 

Children have never made his mother poll ten points lower because that old video of Jack chugging a beer in high school well before his twenty-first birthday leaked. 

Also, these children in particular give Jack an excuse to finally dodge Connor and his entourage. He spends hours ducking in and out of rooms, talking with the kids and playing Star Wars and Tea Party and Stanley Cup Final with them, letting the noise of the day fade into the background. He forgets about the cameras and the security guards and everything, really, until Sadie in room 425 is putting a bow into his hair and he hears a quiet huff from the doorway and they both turn to see Connor propped up against the doorway. 

“That’s your color,” he says, when Jack meets his eyes. Jack flushes scarlet, but Sadie had picked the blue bow out herself so it’s not like he’s going to pull it off. 

“He looks beautiful,” Sadie tells him archly. 

“He does,” Connor agrees, and his face is soft and he doesn’t break Jack’s gaze. 

Then their security guard appears over his shoulder, a hulking shadow, and Jack looks away. 

“Thank you for the beautiful accessories,” Jack says, and leans in for a hug. Then he stands, tugs on the hem of his henley. 

“Time to go?” he asks. 

… 

Connor is quiet on the ride to the arena. Quiet in a way that seems pointed even for him, the quietest person Jack has maybe ever met. 

“You were good with them,” Connor says finally. 

Jack looks at him for a moment, the line of his nose and the flip of his hair. Connor doesn’t look over at him, when he continues, “the kids, I mean.” 

Jack takes a moment to consider what someone ‘charming’ might say. Then he opens his mouth and says instead, “I like kids. I understand them.” 

Connor does look over, then. “Really? I don’t. I mean. I like them, of course. But kids can say anything.” 

Jack laughs, too loud. “That’s the good thing about them, man. They’re so real. You’re never going to meet a kid bullshitting you for favors or for money or for... whatever. If they like you, they really like you.” 

Jack meets his gaze for a long moment. “I never thought about it like that, I guess,” Connor says, and then the door opens and security is escorting him out and by the time Jack catches up Connor is halfway inside. 

… 

The game is a game. It should be the highlight of Jack’s night, but the Leafs win. Connor knows more about hockey than Jack would have predicted even knowing that he’s Canadian, buthe keeps getting interrupted in telling Jack his philosophy on the powerplay by the dozens of people who keep stopping by for a handshake or a picture or a favor. 

Even Jack can’t avoid noticing how he tenses each time, relaxing back in his seat only when he’s finally watching the game again. 

Jack’s been in enough situations like this to know better than to ask if he’s alright. He almost has a flash of sympathy, even. 

Not enough to avoid saying, when a Leaf whiffs it on the powerplay, “fucking easy shot, man,” and elbowing him in the side. 

Connor leans against him, for a moment. “I don’t want to hear it, Jack. I know that you root for the Bruins.” 

Jack scoffs. “Yeah, baby. I don’t know what was on the fact sheet they gave you, but I hope it said, ‘Boston Bruins, best team in the league.’” 

“It did not say that,” Connor says. 

The Leafs score, then. Connor’s not undignified enough to leap up and celebrate, but he does smile and then try to hide it from Jack. 

The first time they ever met was at a hockey game. Connor had pulled the same move then, when Canada scored. Hid his smile in his shoulder. Jack had resented it a lot more, at the time, and only partly because his team had been losing. 

They have to wait a while after the game ends before they can leave. They can’t chance anyone mobbing Connor on the way out of the arena. He’s still wearing his suit but he’s loosened his tie, and he’s talking more naturally about the game-winning-goal than he’s talked about anything all day and for the first time since Jack saw his face in a magazine ten years ago he looks almost human. 

They drive Jack straight to the airstrip when they finally get the all-clear. Connor’s scheduled to attend a state dinner in a month, to continue the charade. 

Jack’s detail opens the door for him into the dark night. It’s snowing again. Connor says, “good night,” softly. Jack hesitates before stepping out of the car. 

“If we’re going to do this,” he says, “you might as well have my direct line.” 

… 

It’s not like they text every day, or anything. It’s not like Jack waits up at night for his texts or wakes up in the morning expecting them. 

It’s just—Connor's funnier than Jack expected him to be. More down to earth. He understands Jack’s humor when nobody else does. Sympathizes when the press turns on him again. Teases when the Bruins go on a losing streak. 

It’s just that when Connor says, _excited to see the White House next week _and Jack says _no Canadian has said that since 1814 and then u burned it down _and Connor FaceTimes him just to laugh, they talk for four hours. 

It’s just that their Snap streak overtakes Jack’s with Jess, when she goes to Puerto Rico for a week and loses cell service. 

That’s all. 

… 

They force Jack into a tux, for the state dinner. He feels like he’s suffocating in his bowtie and he’s hyperconscious of spilling anything down his white shirt, but his sister whistles when she sees him and that helps, a little. 

“Damn,” Noah drawls, and if Jack didn’t love him like a brother—if they hadn’t known each other since elementary school and gone on the campaign trail together and if Noah wasn’t the second son to Jack’s first son—Jack would really consider slugging him for how much he looks like an Abercrombie model in his own tux. “Dressed to impress, Eichs.” 

“Shut up, Noah,” Jack says. “You look like a future senator from North Carolina. A _state _senator.” 

Noah’s jaw drops open. “That is a very low blow,” he says. 

“Boys,” Jess says, resplendent in her own gown. She steps on Jack’s toes, and only the polished box of his dress shoe saves him. “Our guests are arriving.” 

They sit Connor next to Jack, at dinner. It’s strange to see him after months of talking long distance, texting every day and even calling occasionally. Strange to have his voice in Jack’s ear for real. He keeps losing track of the conversation, laughing too loud and cracking inappropriate jokes and earning hard glances from his mother where she’s seated next to the Prime Minister. He makes Connor snort into his lobster bisque, almost entirely by accident. Connor’s even more turned out than Jack is, medals on his chest and the ever-present Maple Leaf pin on his lapel. 

They sneak out, after dinner, in the five minutes they have before dessert is served. They’ve both had wine all night, but Jack’s snuck a flask into his chest pocket and he offers Connor a swig in the garden. 

“You’re staring,” Connor says, and Jack chokes on a mouthful of whiskey. 

“Yeah,” he coughs. “It’s. Weird. That you’re here.” 

Connor looks away, scuffs his toe on the ground. “Yeah,” he says. 

“Not, like, bad weird,” Jack says, and takes another swig for the liquid courage. “Just, like. Weird that we’re not pretending to like each other, this time. And weird that we’re not talking over a phone. I’m not used to you being here in person.” 

“Well,” Connor says, and reaches out to take the flask back from Jack. For a moment, his hand covers Jack and it’s warm and well-manicured and Jack doesn’t resent it this time around. “As long as it’s not bad weird.” 

… 

“Jack,” Jess says, and falls across the foot of his bed. Noah flanks him on the other side, absorbed in something on his phone. 

“No,” Jack says automatically, recognizing the tone in her voice. 

“This is your _mortal enemy,_” she says. “Your, _if the world ends tomorrow at least he goes with it _nemesis. And now you’re batting your eyelashes at him over the chocolate mousse?” 

“I’m not!” Jack says. 

Noah snorts. Jack shoves him. 

“It’s just,” Jack grits out after a second, unable to resist filling the silence, “like. There’s a small chance that he may not be as bad as I thought. Initially.” 

“Oh?” Jess says sarcastically. “As bad as you thought when you were in middle school and sneaking into my room to look at tabloid pictures of him?” 

Jack shoves her, this time. 

“Okay, for real,” he says, “like serious White House Trio secret pact for real.” 

They both sober, then, to their credit. The White House Trio secret pact is not something to be invoked lightly. 

“I didn’t ever, like, hate-hate him.” They’re quiet, even though Jack knows neither of them are stupid enough to have ever actually bought into the rivalry bullshit. “I just. Sort of resented how easy he always seemed to handle it all.” 

“Oh, Jack,” Jess says, and puts her hand on his ankle. 

“It’s whatever,” he says. “Like, you know how the media can be. I just didn’t think that they would be like that with someone who is actually good at this being famous thing, too. But they are, and he gets how shitty it is. So. We’ve just been talking, mostly.” 

“You are good,” Jess says, just as Noah says, “you know you can like him, Jack. If you do, you know. Like him.” 

Jack swallows, hard. The room is quiet. 

“We all know that’s not true,” he says to both of them. 

… 

July 1, Jack sees polished press pictures of Connor with a leaf pin on his lapel and then drunken snapchats of him with his shirt unbuttoned to his belly button in quick succession. 

July 2, Jack sees pictures of him with a visiting German prince and ignores the way his stomach tightens at the way their heads are pressed together in the twitter selfie captioned with something in German that Jack just barely resists Google translating. 

July 3, Jack sees the invitation list for their annual Independence Day bash. 

… 

“It’s not like you were going to invite him,” Noah says. He’s three beers in and his red-white-and-blue snapback is a little askew and he’s Jack’s least favorite person in the world. 

“Yeah,” Jack says, “well, maybe that’s for a reason.” 

“Because you’re scared.” 

“Or because,” Jack says, and takes off his third shirt of the morning. He should go back to the button down. “This day is supposed to be about us and having fun and not about pretending to like some foreign prince.” 

“Pretending,” Noah scoffs, and cracks beer number four. “I know you better than that, Jack. I saw you together at that dinner. You’re allowed to admit that you’re friends.” 

“Ugh.” 

“Even if you don’t want to admit it because your mom told you to go make friends with him. You like talking to him. Your day is worse if you don’t. In fact, you’re a bastard if you don’t. You look at your phone all the time but hide it when someone asks who you’re talking to. So if I want my best friend to be happy—and I do—I'll invite whatever prince I want to invite to my party. Even if you don’t want to admit it will make you happy.” 

“I hate you,” Jack says, without fire. 

“No, you don’t,” Noah says. “Now put on the white t-shirt again. You know it makes your arms look good.” 

… 

Connor rolls in late with some duke, which would be more impressive if he wasn’t a prince himself. He’s wearing a literal blazer to what is essentially a presidentially-sanctioned frat party. He still has the Canadian pin on his lapel. Jack’s more than a few drinks in when Noah shoves him Connor’s way, which is the only way he can justify the way he falls into his arms and drawls, “hey, baby,” into his ear. 

“Hi,” Connor says, flushed, and Jack needs to put a drink in his hand immediately. 

Jack’s not good at much, but he throws the best party in D.C., with a little help from Noah and Jess. Raising hundreds of thousands of dollars for charity each year is just a bonus, in addition to seeing the whos-who of young Washington plastered on the White House lawn. 

They’ve got a DJ cranking mid-2000s hits when Jack realizes that Connor’s impeccable upbringing has left him with one major knowledge gap: “You don’t know how to get low?” he hollers. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Connor giggles. The guy he brought with him, Dylan something, is at the bar with Noah and when Jack gestures their way two more shots appear in front of him. 

“Take this,” Jack says, and puts one in Connor’s hands, and then the opening strains of Lil Jon come over the speakers and Jack whoops and throws his own shot back. “You gotta loosen up,” Jack says, and he thinks about putting his hands on Connor’s hips to show him but then a girl appears in a star-spangled crop top and she’s giggling up at Connor and shaking her hair back from her face and he’s smiling at her and Jack figures it’s probably time for another drink, anyway. 

“Bro,” Noah says, when Jack slings an arm around his shoulders. “Sick fucking party.” 

“Dude,” Dylan says, and shakes his free hand, “where’s Prince Charming?” 

Jack shrugs and throws back another shot. “Dancing with some girl, I guess. He looked pretty into her.” 

Noah squeezes his waist, a little. Dylan wrinkles his nose and says, “there’s no way.” 

Jack shrugs again. When he turns to look back, the crowd has filled in and he couldn’t watch Connor with the girl even if he wanted to. 

Jack’s phone chirps in his pocket, then. It’s Connor: _where ddi u go? _

Before he can answer, it starts ringing, _HRH Prince Perfect _popping up on his caller ID. Jack steps away from Noah to answer the call, away from the noise of the bar. There’s nowhere that quiet, but when he hits the bushes he accepts the call. 

“Where’d you go?” Connor says when he answers. 

“Where are you?” Jack asks, because it’s quiet on Connor’s end. “You were with that girl and I didn’t want to—I just went to get a drink, is all.” 

“I’m out back,” Connor says, and Jack knows where he means, starts walking into the private garden where the party hasn’t spilled yet. The one where they snuck whiskey a few months ago. “I needed. I don’t know. Some air.” 

“You okay?” Jack says. When Connor answers, Jack can hear his voice in the air, too. 

“Of course,” he says, and Jack ends the call. 

Connor has an open bottle of champagne in one fist. He’s lost the blazer and his shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, rucked up in front. 

“If you fucking die at my American-themed party,” Jack half jokes, “I’m pretty sure your country is allowed to extradite me on charges.” 

Connor smiles, but not one of the ones that Jack’s grown used to, full and toothy and a little awkward. It’s small and contained. His media smile. 

He swigs straight from the bottle, and Jack tracks the motion with his eyes, following Connor’s hand as he swipes it across his mouth and then offers Jack the bottle. He takes it, presses his mouth into the same place. 

“You looked like you were having fun,” Jack says, once he swallows. “I didn’t want to get in the way.” 

Connor sighs, something with a harsh laugh on the end. “I didn’t,” he starts, and then shakes his head. Jack puts the champagne back in his hand. 

“There are a lot of people here who would do anything to be with you,” Jack says, stupidly. 

“I can’t—” Connor starts. “I’m not in a position where I could… be with anyone that I actually wanted to. You know?” 

“No,” Jack says. Connor could have anyone he wanted—rich or poor, American or Canadian or fucking German. Anyone would want him. 

“The only people I would be interested in are totally off-limits to me,” Connor says. 

“She was a senator’s daughter, Connor,” Jack starts, “I’m sure she would—” 

And then Connor’s kissing him, still clutching the champagne, free hand damp and clammy on Jack’s neck, and his mouth is warm and wet and tastes like wine, and Jack’s stunned into submission for a brief, rare moment. 

“Oh,” he says, and then he’s kissing back, harder, and hundreds of dollars worth of champagne is spilling over the White House lawn because Connor drops the bottle to push Jack against a tree and slide a hand up the back of his shirt and Jack’s head is spinning and not just from the booze. 

Connor’s a good kisser. It gentles and then reignites in turn, their breaths coming faster, hands twining in shirt tails, and then just before Jack can shove his hand down the back of Connor’s pants the phone rings, bright and abrupt. 

They break apart, panting, both reach for their phones. It’s Connor’s that’s ringing. He doesn’t even answer it, just looks at the caller ID and says, softly, “shit.” It’s the first time that Jack’s heard him swear. 

“I have to go,” he says, while Jack is still gathering his bearings, and then without so much as a backward glance, he’s striding out through the garden entrance and disappearing into the night. 

... 

The thing is—it's been a long time since Jack really thought he was straight. 

It's also been a long time since he’s been able to be anything but. Trading handies with a hockey buddy when your mom is the attorney general and subsequently the governor in a whole different state than the one where he lives is a much different matter than wanting to kiss his best bro-friend when she’s running for president. 

They’ve all made sacrifices for the campaign. In the grand scheme, this one is minor. 

Being kissed by a prince, however, is no minor thing. Jack’s crisis in the weeks following his party has nothing to do with his sexuality, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is, truly, in crisis. 

Connor had kissed him. Kissed _him. _Initiated, even. It wasn’t a fever dream or a drunken hallucination, because Jack had woken up with a text from Connor saying _sorry_ and one from Noah saying, _where’d you go_ followed by three eye emojis, because he hadn’t been able to bring himself to return to the party. 

An actual prince, storybook perfect from his golden hair to his polished shoes, had laid one on America’s national disaster of a first son. 

Jack’s no good at math, and even he knows that there is no part of this that computes. 

Moping isn’t really an appropriate term for what he does. Lolling about in a state of disbelief, maybe. Reliving every second, for sure. Waiting for a text that never comes—yes, absolutely. 

Living through a prominent Canadian tabloid’s exclusive first look at Prince Connor’s royal romance with a glamorous blonde minor viscountess and social media influencer? That too. 

And Jess is in South America for a global summit of women in politics, which means that Noah lasts about ten days before he snaps. 

“We’re going on vacation,” he says, “you don’t have to like it, but you’d better at least pretend.” 

… 

“No,” Jack says, when they climb in the back of the SUV waiting for them at the airport to see Dylan’s smug fucking face. 

“Yes,” Noah says, and fistbumps Dylan. 

“No.” 

“Oh, yes,” Dylan says. "Very happy to have you here. We hope you enjoy your stay. We also hope you knock our prince out of whatever funk he’s been in for the past two weeks, because it’s getting pretty fucking old.” 

“Agreed,” Noah sighs, and pulls down his sunglasses. 

Jack doesn’t know where they’re going—their driver takes a series of highways and stays on them long enough that they’re clearly not heading for the palace, and concrete quickly turns to suburb and then trees and then forest. 

He’d never told Noah about the kiss, even though he knows about almost everything else. It wouldn’t have seemed fair, to out Connor like that. He’d assumed that Connor had told Dylan, but now that they’re together Jack can’t imagine Dylan going more than five minutes without bringing it up, if he really knew. 

So he’s Connor’s dirty little secret, then. 

The car finally rolls to a stop in front of what probably passes for a cabin where royalty are concerned, a stately mansion on the edge of a quiet lake. It’s rural but not isolated. Jack can see at least two other houses on the shoreline, though he assumes with Connor in residence that they’re either vacant or occupied by security. 

Dylan gets edgy as they pull up the drive, twitchy and vague in response to Jack’s questions. It dawns on him all at once as the car door is opened—“he doesn’t know we’re coming, does he,” Jack says flatly, and it’s not a question. 

“Uh,” Dylan says, as the front door of the mansion swings open. 

“Fuck,” Jack says, with feeling. The figure that comes down the front steps is at first glance a stranger to him, only then it resolves itself into Connor and Jack has to swallow, hard. Connor’s wearing swim trunks and a t-shirt and a backwards hat, more casual than Jack’s ever seen him. He’s grinning, too, and Jack knows that it’s going to fall right off his face when he sees his uninvited guests. 

It’s that thought that almost makes him ask the driver to turn the car around. And he has the clout, too, only Noah is herding him out of the backseat firmly and Connor does see him, then, and the smile does fall off his face and it’s just as shitty as Jack had imagined. 

“So,” Dylan starts, a little hesitantly, “I invited some friends. Hope that’s okay.” 

To his credit, Connor rallies quickly. “Of course, welcome,” he says, and his hug when he greets Jack is so perfunctory as to be nearly nonexistent. 

“Happy to be here,” Jack lies. 

… 

Between the two of them, Dylan and Noah fill enough space with their chatter that Jack doesn’t know if they even notice the way that Connor is avoiding him. Not that Jack’s blameless, of course, but it is difficult to try to speak with someone who’s determined to pretend that he doesn’t exist. 

He ends up on the deck after dinner, looking across the lake as the sun sets slowly. Connor was murmuring into his phone—probably the viscountess—and Dylan and Noah were making noise about a complicated Chel tournament, so he relaxes a little once he’s sure he’s alone, lets his mood fall back into something a little stormy. 

He’s spent weeks thinking about being back with Connor, but it turns out being here with him isn’t any better than being apart. 

The back door slams and pulls him from his reverie. It’s Connor, which both surprises him and doesn’t at all. 

“Hi,” Connor says, a little tentatively. Jack nods in return. There’s a daybed out on the deck, large and luxurious as most people’s master. He’s sprawled across it, and when Connor asks, “may I?” Jack just nods. 

“I’m sorry, about Dylan,” Connor says, once he’s settled. 

“Don’t be. I’m sorry, about Noah. For what it’s worth, he didn’t tell me that you had anything to do with this trip, or I probably wouldn’t have come. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Well,” Jack sighs, “we can leave in the morning. I’ll ask to, at least. Even if Noah wants to stay.” 

“I want you here,” Connor says softly, and it makes Jack angry, though he’s been dying to hear it. 

He tries taking a deep breath, like his media coach taught him, and it only half-works. “I don’t understand,” he says carefully. “You, fucking. You ghosted me, for weeks. But now you want me here? What about your Viscountess?” 

“Who?” Connor asks, brow creased. 

“Your fucking... that girl you’ve been macking on in all of the tabloids!” 

“Oh,” Connor says, picking at a piece of fuzz on the blanket that Jack’s pulled over his lap and looking away. “She’s... a friend, is all. A nice girl, but not. You know.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

Connor inhales, and then exhales loudly. “I kind of. Freaked out, when I got back from Washington. I thought maybe people had seen, or, like, they would find out—” 

“I would never tell anyone, Connor. I didn’t even tell Noah, or my own fucking sister.” 

Connor shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you would. But I just thought...” 

“Damage control,” Jack finishes. He’s been shoved out the door and into a five-star restaurant with one-too-many female acquaintances following his own gaffes to pretend like he doesn’t know how this goes.

“Yeah,” Connor says softly. The sun is nearly below the horizon, now, the temperature falling as well. Neither of them speak, and Jack has the urge to fill the silence, second guesses himself and then opens his mouth again. 

“I thought you regretted it,” he says, finally. 

He can see Connor’s flush, when he says, “no.” 

“Good,” Jack says. 

“But,” Connor shrugs, “you know that it can’t happen again. We both know that.” 

_ Do we? _Jack thinks. But he nods, and says, “of course.” 

Connor’s looking out over the lake. He’s lost the hat and pulled on a fleece, and Jack takes him in, the line of his nose and color of his eyes in the dying light of the day. 

“They’re going to be in there for a while,” Connor says, when it’s truly dark. “They were going to play best of seven.” 

He pulls something out of his pocket—a tightly rolled joint and lighter. Jack raises his eyebrows. 

“It’s legal here,” Connor says, as if that’s the most surprising part about all of this. “And Dylan hogs. But I thought maybe you’d want to?” 

“Sure.” 

“If not, that’s—oh,” Connor says, laughing sheepishly, talking over him. “Okay, then.” 

He lights up, and they trade the joint back and forth slowly. It's been a while for Jack, for reasons that start with ‘first’ and end with ‘son,’ and it goes to his head quickly. It’s pretty fucking idyllic out here, dark and quiet with nothing but the quiet sounds of the lake lapping on the shore and Connor’s soft breaths, the knowledge that they’re completely alone together. Noah and Dylan are occupied and security won’t look their way unless they raise the alarm and there’s nobody else on the whole fucking lake. 

Jack lays flat back and laughs at the thought. 

“What,” Connor says, sounding a little giggly himself. 

“Just,” Jack says, helplessly, “life. Like, I’m getting high with a fucking prince. It’s bizarre. Who could have expected.” 

“Maybe I’m not as boring as everyone thinks,” Connor says. 

“That’s not what I mean,” Jack says, sobering, “but. Yeah.” 

Connor lies back, too. They’re away from the city and the stars are beginning to come out, clearer than Jack has seen them in a long time. Something about watching them, thinking about them burning up there light years away, makes Jack feel almost sad. 

“Do you ever think about what you would be doing,” Connor muses, “if you weren’t doing this?” 

“Yeah, all the time. I wasn’t born into this like you were, you know? I mean. My mom was always in politics, but it didn’t affect me and my sister much until she wanted to run for president. Five years ago, this was, like. Unthinkable.” 

“What would you be doing?” 

“I don’t know,” Jack says, taking the joint back. “Realistically, probably working somewhere. But when I was a kid, all I wanted was to be in the NHL.” 

“Really?” Connor asks, pushing up on an elbow. 

“Yeah,” Jack says, “you know, before my mom started campaigning, I was living in Michigan. Doing the USA development program.” 

“I didn’t know that,” Connor says. 

“My fact sheet didn’t include that?” 

“No, it didn’t,” Connor says. He shivers, and so Jack pulls the blanket over him, as well, shifts in a little closer. 

“Not surprising, I guess. That had to end pretty quickly, when she started running. Happy nuclear family, and all that. Everyone together on the campaign trail. Besides, a good wholesome American kid should be playing, like. Football. Baseball, maybe. I didn’t even play the right sport.” 

“I always wanted to be in the NHL, too,” Connor admits, rolling onto his side. “But for me, obviously, it never got much farther than hanging the posters on my wall. I couldn’t even join any real teams. My parents got me and my brother private lessons, but. It’s not the same.” 

“No,” Jack agrees softly. He’s feeling the weed, now. He doesn’t think it’s his imagination that Connor’s leaning into him. He turns his head, finds his mouth just inches from Connor’s. “I miss the team part most, I think. The friends.” 

“So you’d be tearing it up in the league,” Connor says, smiling. “I’d be. An accountant or something, I think.” 

“You like math?” Jack wrinkles his nose, and Connor laughs at him, a little. 

“Yeah. It’s simple. Straightforward.” 

They’re down to the last pull, now. 

“You want?” Connor offers. 

Jack breathes in. Out. “We could share,” he says. 

“Jack...” 

“Just an offer, is all.”

“Fuck,” Connor says. Jack shivers. 

For a moment, he doesn’t think that it’s going to work. But then Connor’s inhaling the last of the smoke and his hand is on Jack’s cheek, big and warm, urging his mouth open, and Jack has only a second to breathe in himself before Connor’s kissing him properly. 

It’s just how Jack remembered. The warmth of his mouth, the scent of him, the buzz low in his stomach. Connor pulls back minutely, closes his eyes. There's just enough light coming through the windows from the house that Jack can see the way he licks his lips before he leans back in, kisses him again. 

Jack pulls him closer. It’s warm under the blanket, their bodies pressed together. The kiss turns languid, drawn out. 

“I said I wasn’t going to do this again,” Connor murmurs. 

“The sky didn’t fall last time,” Jack says, between kisses. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.” 

Connor presses their mouths together again, then again. It lingers, then subsides. Jack doesn’t pull back. 

“We can just be normal,” Jack says. “Normal dudes. Just me and Connor—wait, do you have a last name?” 

Connor laughs, softly. “Not really. But. We used my dad’s, in school. McDavid.” 

“Scottish?” Jack says, “are your royal British ancestors rolling over in their graves?” 

“It was a love match,” Connor says. “They met in university.” 

“That’s nice,” Jack says, and leans in again. They make out for a while, slow and hot and honey-sweet, before Connor leans back to catch his breath. 

“Tell me something,” he says. 

“What do you want to know?” 

“I don’t know. Something nobody else does.” 

Jack thinks for a second, running his fingers idly through Connor’s hair. There’s not much that’s his own, at this point. Not much that nobody else in the world knows. 

“Okay,” he says finally, “I’ve never seen you without a suit on before.” 

“That’s not a secret,” Connor says, laughing a little. 

“Well, the secret is. I like it. Seeing you like this, in casual clothes, like any college dude. It makes you seem…” 

“Normal?” Connor offers, and Jack shakes his head. 

“Real.” 

Connor pauses, stilling the path of his fingers across Jack’s chest. “I’m always real. People think I’m a doll or a statue or something, but I’m not.” 

“That’s not what I mean, really,” Jack says, struggling for words. “I meant more like. You seem less distant, or something. You’re designed to be unattainable most of the time.” 

“That’s not true,” Connor says, but then they’re kissing again and Jack gets lost in it, a little. 

It’s late, by the time they turn in. They talk and kiss and talk again until Connor yawns so wide that his jaw cracks. 

“We should go to bed,” Jack says, reluctantly. The upstairs lights turned off a while ago; Noah and Dylan are probably already asleep. 

“Yeah,” Connor says, but then they’re kissing again, until Jack pushes him away. 

“Seriously,” Jack says, and stands up before he can think better of it. He holds out a hand to Connor. He's feeling more sober now. A glass of water and he’ll be back to normal. 

Connor stumbles into him a little, when he gets to his feet. 

“This was nice,” he says, and then bites his lip. Jack can almost feel it coming. “You know it can’t happen again. 

Jack knows. He also knows that their hands are clasped together between their bodies and neither of them want to let go. 

“Like I said earlier,” Jack says, “it doesn’t mean anything.” 

… 

Jack very carefully doesn’t go down to the kitchen the next morning until he can hear Noah’s bright voice joining the conversation over the clatter of pots and pans. 

His stomach still swoops when he sees Connor at the counter, sleepy and wearing a sweatshirt. He’s growing the shadow of a beard and it looks as soft as the rest of him. He must not be allowed to grow one when he’s making public appearances, because it’s new and fascinating. Jack viciously stamps out the urge to stroke it with the pads of his fingers. 

“Coffee?” Dylan offers. Jack longs for something stronger. 

He's not much of a cook himself, but he can only watch Dylan fish broken egg shell out of the bowl with his bare fingers so many times before he shoulders him out of the way. 

The kitchen is well stocked—he scrambles eggs with bacon on the side and lets Dylan man the toaster and avoids Connor’s eye when he slides him a plate. 

After breakfast, Dylan makes noise about taking Noah into the small town down the road for more booze. 

“I wanted to take the boat out,” Connor half-whines. He’s not what Jack would call a morning person, and Jack wishes he didn’t find it endearing. 

“Jack will go with you,” Noah says, as if that’s the only reasonable solution. “Plus, if you both stay behind we won’t have to take as much security. Dylan and I aren’t that important.” 

The ‘boat’ turns out to be a sleek, brand new speedboat. Connor’s wearing swimming trunks an inch too short for Jack’s comfort and a pair of mirrored sunglasses and the backwards hat again. He looks like a frat bro and it’s nearly jarring to think of how buttoned up he usually is in public. Jack doesn’t want to think about anything in the neighborhood of why he’s allowed to see him like this, private and loose and open. 

The cooler is loaded up with beer and security is discreetly distant. When Connor kills the engine after steering them to the middle of the lake, the day is quiet and warm. 

They let the boat bob on the waves, neither of them speaking. What would Jack say, exactly? He fucks around on Instagram a little, likes a photo of his sister smiling arm in arm with Miss Universe. Comments on a picture Noah posted yesterday of his game controller next to a can of beer captioned ‘vacayyyyyyy!!!’ 

Tries extremely hard to keep his eyes from tracing the curve of Connor’s leg where he’s laid out in the bow of the boat, the pinking crest of his nose and square strength of his knuckles. 

Connor cracks a beer and takes a long swallow. 

“I’m going for a swim,” Jack says abruptly, and dives over the side of the boat. 

The water is shockingly cold. It clears his mind and he settles into long strokes, swimming a few hundred yards away from the boat before pausing to tread water. He can do this—enjoy an afternoon without jumping on a guy who clearly doesn’t want him. He just needs to settle down and stop staring and re-categorize Connor in his head as the prince of Canada and not as the dude who had his tongue in Jack’s mouth last night. He’s perfectly capable of being around hot people who don’t want to fuck him. He hangs out with Noah all the time. 

He takes his time swimming back to the boat. There’s a low deck in back, easy to push himself onto even without the ladder down. 

He scrapes his wet hair back away from his face with one hand. Connor’s stood up, beer can held loosely in his hand, standing near where Jack’s dripping all over the floor. 

“Do we have a towel?” Jack asks. 

“Jesus Christ,” Connor says, and then he’s kissing Jack, so hard that Jack actually takes a half-step back before he leans into it. He shouldn’t encourage this, but he’s helpless against it, opens his mouth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Connor breathes again, when they pull apart. “Do you even know what you look like? I’ve been half-hard all morning.” 

“Shit,” Jack says, and kisses him again. “Me too, I have too.” 

They make out for a while, Jack clammy and dripping and Connor dropping the empty can to slip his fingers down the back of Jack’s wet swim trunks. It settles from something frantic into something languid and longing but no less heated. 

“I thought we weren’t doing this,” Jack murmurs. 

“I changed my mind,” Connor says into Jack’s neck. “Here, come here.” He pushes Jack down onto one of the padded bench seats, falls to his knees in front of him. 

“Can I?” He asks, looking up through his lashes. 

“Fuck,” Jack says, with feeling. 

Connor’s mouth is warm and wet and skillful. Jack hates the person who taught him this and also wants to send him flowers. He finally gets to put his fingers on Connor’s cheek, feel the soft scrape of his stubble before he threads his fingers through Connor’s hair, just this side of too long. 

Connor takes his time, holding him in place with one hand on his thigh. Jack’s perfectly happy to sit back and let him explore, gasping at the way Connor strokes him and humming when he licks at the head of Jack’s cock. 

“You feel so good,” Connor says into his inner thigh, closing his eyes. 

“I think that’s my line,” Jack tells him, startling a laugh from his pink, wet lips. 

It’s slow and almost soft, now that they’re committed to it. His first blowjob with His Royal Highness probably shouldn’t be peaceful, but that’s how it feels—the sun is warm and the day is quiet, just the low sounds of the waves lapping the side of the boat and the birds flying overhead and Connor’s mouth working. Jack keeps a hand in his soft hair, thumbing back the way it falls over his forehead. 

“I’m gonna come,” Jack tells him, stroking his free hand over the back of Connor’s bare neck. 

“Yeah, come on.” He doubles down and Jack swears and does come, pulling his hair harder than he means to. 

When Connor pulls off, he presses his face into Jack’s inner thigh. His mouth is open still, wet and hot, and Jack shudders at the sensation. 

“Here, come here,” he says, pulling at Connor’s shoulders until he straightens up, climbs up onto the seat over Jack, straddling his lap. 

“Can I,” Jack half-asks, already pushing Connor’s trunks down his thighs. His cock bobs free, hard and beautiful and dripping at the tip, and Jack palms it, watches Connor’s head fall back. 

He learns what Connor likes quickly—he's responsive, twitching and swearing when Jack gets it right. Jack kisses him, sloppy and wet, tasting himself on Connor’s lips. Despite the summer sun, he’s still dripping lake water, skin cool to the touch, and the hot press of Connor’s chest feels almost as good as his mouth did, makes him shudder and pull Connor closer with his free arm, craving his touch. 

Connor comes quickly and without a sound, pressing their foreheads together. A moment passes, afterwards, when Jack’s brain catches up and produces the crippling idea that Connor’s going to climb off of him and pretend like nothing happened again. 

Instead, he laughs, softly, and says, “you mentioned something about towels,” motioning to their chests. 

He brings Jack a beer without him asking, cracks a new one for himself. He settles back down next to Jack on the cushioned seat, pressing their shoulders together. 

Jack can’t bear to ask and can’t bear not to. “I thought we couldn’t...” he starts. “You know. Do this.” 

Connor drops his hand to Jack’s thigh, tucking his fingers under the hem of his shorts. He takes a breath deep enough that Jack can feel it. 

“I don’t think I can help myself,” he says, softly. 

“Does that mean,” Jack says. “We could. Again?” 

“If you wear these shorts again,” Connor tells him, “I’m not going to have a choice.” 

… 

That night, precisely ten minutes after Jack hears Noah and Dylan shout their goodnights from where he’s up scrolling through Twitter in bed, his bedroom door creaks open. 

“Hi,” Connor says softly, and Jack throws back the covers and lets him crawl into bed beside him, pressing kisses into his chest. 

They have three more days. 

… 

They all leave at the same time—a blessing and a curse. A blessing because Jack doesn’t have to imagine Connor here without him, soft and happy and scruffy. A curse because he has to watch him transform back into a prince, shaving his beard and slicking his hair back and slipping into a tailored suit in preparation for the paparazzi that are constantly stationed outside the palace. The change in him is a physical thing—his spine straightens but he takes up less space somehow, prim and cold. 

Jack stops him on the way out the door, hand on his wrist. Kisses him against the wall. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” he says, even though Connor looks like one. 

… 

On their flight home, Noah leans over and asks, “good trip?” 

Jack tries not to blush remembering the drag of fingers down his chest, a hot mouth on his cock, the feeling of his shoulders between Connor’s legs and the gasps of his release. “Yeah,” he coughs. “You were right, I, uh. Needed that break.” 

“Your dick sure did,” Noah says, smug, and Jack smacks him across the chest hard enough to startle a yelp from him and thanks god they’re on a private jet. 

“You knew?” 

“Well, sometimes when a guy loves his bro very much,” Noah says, “he may conspire to take his bro on a Canadian vacation so that he can work out some repressed feelings for another bro. With the other bro’s best bro-friend's help, of course.” 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Jack mutters, “and I’ll fully have diplomatically immunity to go kill Dylan, too.” 

“That’s not how diplomatically immunity works,” Noah says. “And anyway, Dylan didn’t even believe me about you both until you were making out on the deck that first night.” 

“You weren’t supposed to know about that,” Jack says. 

“Jack,” Noah says, but not unkindly. “We didn’t exactly think that you guys were doing origami out there. Neither of you are that subtle. And you were also right in front of a window.” 

“Yeah, but,” Jack says, sobering, “you really aren’t supposed to know. In the sense that, like. Nobody—fucking _nobody_—can know about this.” 

“I know,” Noah says, and cuffs him around the neck. “Just like that one night in 2015, this goes to the grave.” 

… 

In September, October, November, D.C. is grimmer than usual. Full of campaigning for the next general election, which requires a lot of suits and a lot of looking interested in the backgrounds of rallies and not a lot of actual thought. 

Every few days there are new pictures of Connor in the paper—opening a children’s ward in a local hospital, shaking hands with his British cousins, playing a charity game of polo. But in between, he’s on FaceTime with Jack, sleepy in his sweatshirts, laughing over the connection, very occasionally jerking himself off for Jack’s hungry eyes. 

Not that it means anything, of course. They’re barely friends with dubious benefits. 

Nothing more. 

… 

January brings the first in a series of debates. A sitting president, his mom is virtually assured the nomination. Still, she puts on her best blazer and stands behind a podium and defends her record on national television. 

It’s times like this during which Jack feels the most useless. It’s no good to put his face on campaign posters or claim a healthy family unit when presidential candidates are asking his mother why she, a proponent of higher education for all, has not encouraged her own son to pursue a degree. Why she, a staunch supporter of the family unit, allowed her son to drink underage publicly. Why she, an advocate of strong North American alliances, sent her only son to a Royal Wedding where he cost tens of thousands of dollars in damages. 

It’s times like this during which Jack isolates himself in a hotel bar with two fingers of whiskey and waits for it all to blow over. 

They’re in New York. CNN coverage is blaring from the screen overhead but there’s nobody in the bar besides Jack, who’s enjoying an extremely necessary adult beverage, and his secret service agent, who’s hulking extremely unsubtly from near the doorway. 

And then—a hand on his shoulder, a few inches too close to his neck. An intimate touch. 

“Hello,” Connor says. 

Jack startles, gaping at him. It takes a moment for his brain to reconcile—here's Connor, who he’s been talking to for months now over the phone, and here’s a hotel in New York where Jack resents being. Piecing them together in a way that makes sense takes precious moments during which Connor orders a gin and tonic. 

“What are you doing here,” Jack says, dumbly. 

“There was a gala,” Connor says, gesturing at himself. He’s wearing a tux, his bowtie perfectly straight and his hair plastered back in a way that Jack pines to disrupt. “But mostly, I knew you were here. And I thought... we should catch up.” 

Beneath the bar, their fingers catch for a spare moment. Then Jack presses his hand into Connor’s thigh, high and inside, and prays he doesn’t pull back. Their drinks are served by an extremely efficient bartender, and then they’re alone again excepting 007 near the door, who has a convenient non-disclosure agreement on record and also a soft spot for Jack. 

Jack takes a much needed swig of his refreshed whiskey. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he marvels. 

They’re nothing, to each other. A fact that Jack has to remember when Connor says, “it seems like you’ve had a rough few weeks.” 

Media coverage has been, not to put too fine a point on it, unkind. 

Jack drinks again. “Nothing I can’t handle.” 

Connor shrugs, swirls his drink in his glass. “That doesn’t mean that you should have to try,” he says, and Jack’s hand flexes on his thigh. Connor takes one prim sip and sets the glass back down. 

“You have a room, I presume?” he asks. 

… 

On the other side of Jack’s hotel room door, Connor is a different person entirely—clutching hands, hot mouth, low voice when he says, “I’ve been thinking about this since August.” His bow tie is askew, his hair an unholy mess. 

It doesn’t mean anything, that he sought Jack out tonight. 

Jack unbuttons Connor’s dress shirt with care, following each slip of the button with a press of his lips. “What do you want?” 

“Anything,” Connor breathes. 

“No, tell me. What do you want?” 

Connor takes his face between his palms, stilling his downward motion. “I want you to fuck me.” 

For a moment, Jack’s world narrows to the press of Connor’s hands on his cheeks, the sound of his voice in his ears. 

“Okay,” he says, falsely casual. 

It’s a matter of moments, carefully stretched, to relieve Connor of his tie, his cummerbund, his jacket and shirt and pants, all littered across the floor. When he tumbles onto the bed, naked, Jack is still in his rumpled button-down and tented slacks. 

“Jack,” Connor whispers, sliding a hand down the back of his pants. “I want you.” 

“Hold on,” Jack says, because he’s going to need a minute to find the lube and the condoms and unbutton his shirt, but kissing Connor is simply his priority at the moment. 

He does kiss for a while, slow and drugging, enjoying the feel of Connor’s hands sliding over his back and into his hair. It’s been months but feels like days and feels like years. 

“Jack.” 

“Okay,” he says, and finishes pulling off his shirt on the way to his suitcase. The look on Connor’s face when Jack turns back to him is gratifying, hungry. It’s nice to know that of all the people in America at the moment, at least one wants him just for him. 

Or at least for his dick, which is a concession that Jack is willing to make. 

“Turn over,” Jack says, but when Connor does, when Jack is presented with the long lines of his body, exposed and his for the taking, he’s nearly paralyzed with indecision. 

“Jack,” Connor says over his shoulder. 

He can’t bear not touching him, so he touches all of him, blankets Connor with his body to press his face into the back of his neck. They’re nearly the same size, Jack perhaps an inch taller; they line up almost exactly. Under his weight, Connor suddenly sags, boneless, into the mattress. Jack presses his mouth, open and hot, into the place where Connor’s hairline ends, sucks gently at the soft skin of his neck. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Feels good,” Connor murmurs, and reaches behind himself to thread a hand into Jack’s curls. “Keep going.” 

Jack does, presses kisses down Connor’s back, watching each twitch and shudder, until he’s mouthing at the dimples at the base of Connor’s spine. For a moment he considers continuing, holding Connor open and licking into him, over his hole, but it feels almost too intimate. Instead he asks, “you ready?” and opens the lube, warms it between his fingers. 

Connor opens like a dream beneath his touch, swearing into the crook of his own elbow. He takes one finger, then two. Jack strokes his hand down his back, over his thigh. “You look so good,” he whispers, and then, because he knows from a few of their more x-rated FaceTime sessions that it will elicit the kind of reaction he’s looking for, adds very carefully, “baby, you look so good.” 

Connor shivers, full body, and turns his head to the side. “I want you in me,” he says, “right now.” 

“Fuck,” Jack says, and pulls back to roll the condom on. Connor turns onto his side. 

“I want,” he starts, and then peters out. Jack strokes himself, once, and then thumbs up the inside of Connor’s thigh. 

“Tell me.” 

“I want it like this,” Connor says, and settles onto his back, legs falling open, one arm behind his head. 

“Yeah, okay,” Jack breathes, and before he even pushes in he leans down, kisses like he’s been thinking about for months. 

It’s not like, some sappy shit when Jack slides into him. It’s not like his world changes or the universe reorients itself, or anything. Sure, it feels fucking amazing—sure, he’s been fantasizing about it, dreaming about it even, for months now. Sure, Connor gasps and throws his head back in a gratifying way, clutching at the back of Jack’s neck. 

But it doesn’t even mean anything. 

“Oh, fuck,” Connor says, and Jack pushes one of his legs back towards his chest and groans, and when he says, “yeah, that’s it, baby,” Connor cries out. 

It’s good like this—Jack gets to kiss him, which is always a bonus, and then pull back and look at his body, the shape of it and the flush on his chest and the shadow of his lashes when he closes his eyes. It’s better than Jack thought it would be, and he’s thought about it. Often. 

Too soon, Connor says, “I’m going to come,” and Jack knocks his hand out of the way, starts stroking Connor off himself. 

“Do it,” he says, and he manages to wait, barely, until Connor does start to come before he grits his teeth and shudders through it himself. 

In the aftermath, Connor strokes down his back twice, soft and almost comforting, and then lets his arms fall away. Jack pushes up to pull off the condom, wet a washcloth for Connor to use. 

“I should go,” Connor says, but doesn’t move. 

“You can stay, if you want,” Jack says. “Sneak back to your own hotel in the morning.” 

“I wasn’t supposed to have a hotel tonight,” Connor says, tossing the washcloth haphazardly at the bathroom door. Flushed and with his hair a wreck and wearing a five o’clock shadow at the end of the day, he almost looks like Jack’s Connor again. “I was supposed to leave for Toronto an hour ago.” 

Jack’s chest does something strange and pinched at that. “Careful,” he says, leaning up on an elbow. “You’ll make me think you only came for my dick.” 

It’s meant to be a joke, but Connor turns to look at him, strangely probing. “We’re friends, Jack,” he says, softly. “Or, I thought we were. And you’ve had a rough week. I wanted to see how you were doing, honestly I did.” 

For a moment, Jack feels almost chagrined. Then Connor’s face splits into a grin and he adds, “not that the dick wasn’t an added bonus.” 

“Happy to oblige,” Jack says, rolling his eyes and collapsing back down. It's quiet for a moment, like Connor is waiting for him to speak again—he can only take the silence for so long before he adds, “and I’m fine, you know. It will blow over soon. It always does.” 

“Still,” Connor says, and brushes the tips of their fingers together. “I know how it goes, and I’m sorry.” 

“Thanks,” Jack says to the ceiling. His sister is the golden child and Noah is not in the same position—much as he loves them both, they’ve never fully understood. Connor shouldn’t either, beloved as he is, but it’s gratifying to have someone at least come close. 

Connor hums. “I feel like I should apologize,” he says, softly. 

“That’s just the Canadian in you. What for?” 

“For... I don’t know. Being another thing that could get you into trouble. Another secret you have to keep.” 

Jack breathes in, then out. Disregards his media training and decides to tell the truth. “I like your kind of trouble,” he admits. “And you’re not the worst secret I’ve ever had to keep.” 

“No?” 

“No,” Jack confirms. “There are moments—I know it can’t be like this, and it’s fine. Neither of us can afford it. But there are moments I wish you didn’t have to be a secret. But at the end of the day—at least I get to keep you.” 

… 

It takes him two whiskeys and a threat from Noah before he works up the courage to send the text. 

_ What are you doing next month? _

_ Puck drop, military parade, hospital opening… you’ll have to be more specific, _Connor writes back, an agonizing six hours later. He’s been occupied at a charity golf game, per his instagram, which shouldn’t excuse it. 

_ How about coming to Boston for a long weekend w me and Noah and Jess and __etc for __Noah’s __spring break? _

_ Oh_, Connor sends back, and then he says nothing until the following morning, when he says, _what’s the date? _

Jack tells him, then adds, _bring Dylan (or whoever) _and then goes to a luncheon where he barely avoids spilling soup all over the white tablecloth. 

When he finally gets to look at his phone in the car on the way home, Connor’s said—_okay _

And then—_the military can wait _

And then—_what does one wear on spring break? _

... 

Connor, on spring break, wears a tragic pastel shirt and equally tragic shorts and a SnapBack and sunglasses that Jack is sure cost more than most people’s rent. He’s straight out of Jack’s secretest, frattiest dreams and Jack’s so fucking hot for it that time actually slows when they pull up to the tarmac in Jack’s ratty old Jeep that he hasn’t been allowed to drive regularly since high school and see them standing there, Connor in all his glory and Dylan, too, with a duffle bag as big as he is. 

“Dear God,” Noah says drily, after one look at Jack’s face, “thank fuck you two have a separate floor.” 

“We haven’t worked out sleeping arrangements yet,” Jack says primly, and thanks everything he holds holy that his sister stayed back at the last minute to host a rally for something that Jack fully supports but only half understands. 

Jack almost swallows his own tongue—or Connor’s—when they hug hello and he feels Connor skim his fingertips along Jack’s waistband where his shirt is riding up. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jack says, more honest than he’s ever been. 

… 

They’re going to the beach house that Noah’s parents own, ultimately, but first—a stop at Jack’s house, closer to the airport, for supplies and the bags Noah and Jack left there when they slept over last night. 

Except when they pull up, Noah says, “we forgot to buy some shit yesterday. We’ll run to the store and be back in twenty for you—grab my bag, will you?” And then he’s winking at Jack in the way that makes it clear that he thinks he’s doing him a favor and ushering them both up the front walk before he takes the keys out of Jack’s hands and squeals away in the Jeep with Dylan before they can protest. 

The house key is where it’s been since Jack was a kid, badly hidden under a flower pot on the stoop. He feels a brief second of something like shame—he’s been to Connor’s home, after all—but he represses it quickly and brutally. Being proud of where he comes from is a campaign slogan, true, but he also means it. Sure, he doesn’t live in a palace. Sure, they’re solidly middle class and the front walk is cracked and the front hallway still has that wallpaper they never bothered to replace and he and his sister had to share a bathroom. 

But it’s his home, his childhood house, and that means something, too. 

“Watch your step,” Jack says, and he carefully avoids Connor taking it all in for the first time by saying, “I’m gonna run and get the bags.” 

He takes the stairs two at a time like he has since second grade, thundering up in the same way that always made his dad shout, “where’s the fire?” 

He doesn’t realize until he gets to his childhood room that Connor’s followed, albeit much more quietly. It makes Jack hyperconscious of everything—the plastic trophies on the windowsill, the hockey posters on his wall, the holes in the plaster from years of thumbtacks. Connor looks around, wide eyed and silent, hands in his pockets, until Jack cracks and says, “guess this is how the other half lives, huh?” 

Then Connor grins, sudden and unexpected. 

“I like it,” he says. “It feels like… like I can see you here. Like I get it.” 

“Sure,” Jack says. “Like, that’s always been the story, right? Yeah, half of my mom’s family is from like, the Mayflower, but half of them are just regular blue-collar people. This house won her the rust belt.” 

“No,” Connor says softly, and steps in. “I mean—you make sense here. I understand you better here. It’s your home, and I like it.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh,” Connor says, teasing, and steps forward again. 

Jack drops the bags just as the Prince of Canada presses him up against the door of his childhood bedroom and kisses him stupid. 

“Oh,” Jack says again, when it’s over, and Connor smiles again, softer and more private, and presses his lips briefly against Jack’s cheekbones and says, “are you going to show me the rest?” 

… 

By the time that Noah and Dylan get back, they’ve made out on the kitchen counter, in the threshold still marked up with pencil-scratched heights spanning two decades, and even a little on the couch, where Jack manages to lay him out and coax some very promising sounds from him before the tell-tale sign if the horn in the driveway startles them apart. 

“We should go,” Jack pulls back to say, and Connor hums, then pulls him back down by the neck, kisses him again. Jack can’t help but melt into it, opening his mouth, languid and warm and sweet. 

The horn sounds again. 

“Is he going to keep doing that,” Connor whispers. 

Jack groans, and drops his head to Connor’s shoulder. 

“Until he barges in here,” Jack sighs. “We really do have to go.” 

“Shame,” Connor says, and he looks so soft when Jack pulls back, so pleased, that Jack has to force himself to remember that this doesn’t mean anything. 

They’re nothing to each other. It’s all casual. 

Jack levers himself up off the couch. 

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll make him ride in the back with Dylan on the way there.” 

… 

Noah’s parent’s beach house totally makes up for whatever Jack’s family home lacks in prestige, huge and modern and ostentatiously luxurious. 

Dylan calls, “dibs on the best bedroom” and races off as soon as Jack parks, as if he’s not a duke who’s going to inherit four homes and a truly ungodly amount of cash someday. 

Noah unbuckles and says, with no subtlety, “you two can have the upstairs rooms. They’re very... private,” before he swings himself out of the car, hollering at Dylan, “the master is mine, asshole.” 

Jack clears his throat. “I promise I didn’t tell him,” he says, and Connor chuckles. 

“Really? I told Dylan.” 

“I thought nobody could know.” 

Connor’s fingers cover his, briefly, on the gearshift. He laughs again. “Well, Dylan’s definitely nobody,” he says, and then sobers. “I don’t mind if you tell Noah, or your sister, or whoever. That’s up to you, what you tell them. I just meant. Media, of course. Anybody who might leak it, even if they don’t mean to. You know how it is.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, and then, stupidly, “you typically tell Dylan about everyone you hook up with?” 

But of course, Connor just says, “I mean, he’s my best friend,” and then opens his door. “So where are these private rooms?” 

... 

Jack tries to keep a little sanity and a little distance through the afternoon and through dinner and afterwards, when they all play video games in the living room. Connor makes it hard, constantly in his space, sharing his couch and nudging their ankles together under the table. He makes it harder when he stays, after Noah and Dylan both go to bed. 

At some point, Jack thinks a little foggily, they have to stop this. It can’t go on forever, slipped between the bits and pieces of their real lives. But he’s thinking it at a point after which Connor has already settled into his lap, and it’s the sort of thought that can wait until he’s finished sucking a mark onto the underside of Connor’s jaw, so. 

A problem for tomorrow. 

… 

It’s spring break, so they go out and party a little. Enough to be seen, definitely not enough to land on the pages of any trashy tabloids, but the four of them, together, are a story. 

That’s the whole reason they became friends in the first place, after all. 

Or—so Jack thinks until he gets a phone call from his mother with an all-American dressing down. 

“You okay?” Connor asks him, once he hangs up. He’s been on the dock by himself for a while, but even Noah won’t approach him when he’s in a mood like this. 

Jack breathes in a little shakily, then says, “you should go. I’m not good company right now.” 

Connor sits down next to him, feet dangling over the edge. “We don’t have to talk.” 

Jack resists for about twenty seconds before he says, “it’s whatever. I mean, second verse same as the first. The pictures are going viral on Twitter, and I clearly had more than my allotted three drinks. Everyone’s disappointed, she’s disappointed, there’s an election coming up. I should be in school and instead I’m out partying while my sister supports orphans in Central America. Nothing new.” 

“Still,” Connor says. “I get it. It sucks.” 

“Like, I think as a mom she’s probably not that mad. But she’s also the President, so.” 

“Like I said, I get it,” Connor laughs. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been yelled at by the Queen. It was not very grandmotherly.” 

“Why? You’re perfect,” Jack says. “You went to university. You graduated early. You do, like, full-time charity work.” 

“I’m not, perfect.” Connor says, “and I don’t… I mean. I do that stuff because it’s what my family does, and it’s great, don’t get me wrong, but. I don’t really know what I actually want to do, in the future. Limited options, you know. I could get married like my brother, but there are, uh. Obvious roadblocks there. Or join the military, like the rest of my family, but that’s not particularly appealing, either, so. Ribbon-cuttings it is.”

Jack nudges their shoulders together, still watching the water. That deserves a response that he can’t really give at the moment, so he doesn’t try. For whatever reason, he thinks Connor will understand. 

“You know what the worst part is?” Jack says. “Well, maybe not the worst part. Just a part, but. You’re going to laugh.” 

“I’m not.” 

“I used to think I wanted to go into politics,” Jack tells him, and lays back, closing his eyes. The wood planks of the dock are warm against his back and it’s easier, to not have to see him. “Because of her. That was the plan.” 

Connor doesn’t laugh. “What changed?” 

“She got elected. And we moved to Washington. You know, one of the first state dinners I went to, this Senator told me, ‘the only scandal that can bring you down in Washington is a dead girl or a live boy.’ And he was right. I’ve seen a lot of people come through a lot of shitty stuff unscathed and they still have all of their money and power and influence when they shouldn’t have it. Because they’re bad people, and voters know it, but they just don’t seem to care. And I thought, bad enough that there are people like that in the world and worse that they’re in our government. But I don’t think I could stomach doing business with them. Pretending like I didn’t know. And I don’t think I could handle—what if I was one?” 

“The fact that you’re worrying about that means that you wouldn’t be.” 

“My mom’s not, either. She’s not like that. But. She’s with people like that all the time, and she makes deals with people like that all the time, and it gets to her, even if she won’t admit it. Anyway—I don’t know what I want to do, now. I’m not qualified for much. I’m not good at much, either.” 

Connor reaches out, touches his shoulder. “I don’t think that’s true, actually. I think there’s a lot that you’re good at.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Jack says, and catches his wrist, pulls him down. “Like what?” 

Connor smiles, kisses him. “I think you know at least one thing,” he says. 

… 

Jack heads out after dinner, walks along the beach alone for a while. Well, alone as he can be with his omnipresent secret service agent, which counts as alone these days. He gets back after dark—from the beach, he can see into the house, the way it’s all lit up from the inside, even see Dylan and Noah joking, their wide smiles. 

“Hey,” Connor says, crunching down the sand. He’s wearing a fleece pullover and a backwards hat, again. 

Jack blinks at him. “You look like you play lacrosse for Harvard,” Jack says. 

“You like it,” Connor grins. 

“I mean, yeah,” Jack shrugs, unashamed. Connor already knows that Jack likes him best out of his suits. 

“I just wanted to, uh. Check in,” Connor says. “You were gone for a while.” 

“I’m fine,” Jack says, “I’m always fine. Whatever. I’ll approve the apology statement tomorrow and life will go on and in a few months when the election’s over and my mom’s not worried about being reelected then people will lighten up again.”

“You shouldn’t have to always be fine,” Connor says. 

It’s dark. Jack can’t see his face, but he can imagine the expression there, open and concerned. He can imagine the way it would feel if he stepped forward and kissed him right now—the way he’d smell and the taste of him and the way that he’d wrap his arms around Jack’s waist. He could do it, could kiss him right now, but something’s holding him back. 

“Careful,” Jack says, with an attempt at humor. His voice mostly sounds shaky, to his own ears. “You’re gonna give a guy ideas that you care.” 

“I mean,” Connor says, and shrugs. He’s smiling, Jack can tell, and it gives him something like hope. 

Jack takes a deep breath. He’s been thinking about this all night, all week. “Connor,” he says. “I have to. I mean. I have to tell you that I—" 

He breathes again, trying to get it out, and Connor makes a low noise, and all at once Jack knows—knows that Connor knows what he’s trying to say and knows that Connor won’t let him say it. 

“No,” Connor says. “No, Jack, I can’t, I... sorry, but. I can’t let you finish that.” 

“But—” Jack starts, but Connor’s already halfway back to the house. By the time Jack works up the nerve to follow, his bedroom door is firmly shut. 

…

In the morning, Noah’s drinking coffee at the kitchen counter, alone. 

It wasn’t a particularly restful night. 

Noah takes one look at him and says, “shit.” 

“They’re gone, aren’t they,” Jack asks. 

“They said there was some sort of emergency,” Noah says, “Sorry, bro. I didn’t know that, like, whatever clearly happened had happened or I would have said something.” 

Jack presses his hands to his eyes, hard enough to see spots, and then says, “fuck it,” and pulls the handle of vodka out of the freezer. 

Noah sets his coffee mug down. “What did happen?” 

Jack takes a swig, straight from the bottle, and winces at the burn. “Nothing,” he says. “Absolutely fucking nothing.” 

… 

It takes a fierce negotiation in which Jack promises his mother to attend no less than three campaign rallies and five high-profile charity events in the next two months before she agrees to let him attend the next state dinner in Toronto. 

They haven’t talked, since. Jack got drunk and never explained himself and briefly debated blocking Connor’s number and then spent two and a half days waiting by the phone like some fucking seventh-grader instead. 

Connor never called. He just ran—again. 

And again, Jack’s chasing, which is not a position that he finds himself particularly comfortable in. 

_ What are you doing, exactly, _Jess texts him as they’re crossing the border at 10,000 feet. 

_ Idk, probably something stupid, _Jack responds. 

_ try not to cause another international incident by thinking with your dick _

_ U say ‘another’ like I meant to do it the first time and not like some Norwegian Prince wouldn’t hop off my dick, _Jack responds, and then, _I’ll try not to, _and then, _it’s really not my dick I’m thinking with this time, unfortunately. _

At least this time when he enters the palace, it’s through the front doors, in a tuxedo, with Noah for emotional support. 

And he needs it, when he sees Connor standing there, hair slicked back, tuxedo perfectly tailored, that goddamn Maple Leaf pinned to his lapel as always. His face barely twitches when he sees Jack. “Hello,” he says smoothly, and shakes Jack’s hand like they’ve never met. 

Jack’s not totally ignorant of etiquette, not enough to hiss, _we need to talk _in the reception line, but he wants to, and Connor knows it, too, the way he’s avoiding Jack. 

Jack finally corners him near the croquembouche through an evasive maneuver during which Noah carefully intercepts the British Prime Minister before he can engage Connor in economic policy. 

“No,” Connor says. 

“Yes,” Jack says. “Yes, Connor. Please.” 

“We’re at a state dinner.” 

“You know I didn’t fly up here for the bisque.” 

Connor sighs, then plasters on a wide, fake grin. “Can we table this until after the dessert course?” 

Jack looks away, clenches his jaw. It was stupid to come. It was stupid to think that Jack could ever have this, could ever even _think _about it. 

And then Connor brushes his elbow, just for a moment, a touch of fingers that Jack can hardly feel through his jacket. “Later, I promise.” 

Jack meets his eyes, then, for the first time all night. There’s something complicated there. Maybe regret, maybe pity. 

“Later,” Jack agrees. 

… 

They put him and Noah up in two of the many guest rooms at the palace, so by the time Connor knocks on his door it’s past midnight and Jack’s been pacing for over an hour. Connor looks perfect, of course, still put-together from dinner. Jack shudders to think of the contrast, him in one of his father’s old school sweatshirts and with his hair a wreck from pushing his hands through it every five minutes. 

“Can I come in?” 

“Your house,” Jack says, and steps back. 

Connor looks exhausted, suddenly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he confesses. “What. I mean. What are you doing here?” 

“Officially? State dinner.” 

“Jack.” 

“You know why I’m here, Connor. Don’t even try to pretend like you don’t. You walked away from me before I could finish—” 

“I couldn’t let you finish,” Connor says, and pushes his hand through his hair suddenly, disturbing the gel. A strand falls over his eyes. “Not if you were going to say what I think you were going to.” 

“No, that’s bullshit. It’s not your decision. I deserve to say it, because I’ve been trying to convince myself for _months _ that I was okay with this not meaning anything. That I believed it when I told myself I didn’t care. And I couldn’t do it, Connor. Because we both know it’s not true. It did mean something—it does—and I do care about you.” 

“You think I haven’t tried the same thing?” Connor says, “you think this is easy for me, Jack? I’ve been in love with you for months! But this _can’t happen.” _

“It could,” Jack says, “I, Connor, I love you too. And it could happen.” 

“It’s too complicated, Jack. I love you. But it doesn’t matter.” He won’t look at Jack, and Jack can’t look away. “It’s just too complicated.” 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Jack says, miserably, because they both know it isn’t true. It does have to be. It always will. 

“I’m.” Connor says, and then he does look up and Jack wishes he hadn’t. Easier not to see the devastation on his face. Easier to pretend that he didn’t care at all, that he never did, that it was just Jack imagining things. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But it’s just not possible.” 

When he steps forward, Jack hugs him, almost automatically. He’s trembling minutely. It feels good to hold him, even like this. “I think,” Jack says, “I need to be done, then. With all of this. I can’t—I can’t keep having pieces of you.” 

Connor turns his face into Jack’s neck. His lips brush skin, and then he breathes out and steps back. “I know,” he says. 

And then he leaves. 

… 

Jack stares at the ceiling for an hour. 

Then he rolls out of bed and pads down the hallway to Noah’s room and faceplants on his bed. 

Noah jolts awake, and says, blearily, “what?” and then, “Jesus Christ, Jack, I thought you were an assassin.” 

“Like you’re important enough to assassinate,” Jack says, “and like your agent would have let me into your room if he didn’t know I wouldn’t murder you.” 

“It’s two in the morning,” Noah says, rolling over. 

“Yeah, well,” Jack says. “I’m not sleeping anytime soon.” 

“Shit, bro,” Noah says, pushing up on an elbow. “What happened?”

Jack groans. “I mean. We like, broke up, I guess. Whatever the version of breaking up is when there’s no relationship to begin with.” 

“I thought you loved him,” Noah says, with something like sympathy in his voice. 

“I do,” Jack says, into the pillow, “and he said he loves me. But he also said it’s complicated. And he’s right.” 

“But you love each other,” Noah says uselessly. 

Jack rolls onto his back. “That’s not the complicated part.”

Noah thinks for a moment. “Well,” he says finally, “that’s bullshit.” 

Jack’s heart gives one almighty thump. “Yeah,” he says, “that is bullshit, actually.” 

… 

Connor’s door is unlocked. The room is dark, but Jack knows he’s there, in bed, and he knows Connor isn’t sleeping because he’s not breathing in the even way he does when he’s asleep. 

Jack doesn’t know if he’s going to get tackled by security any moment, but he’s willing to take the risk. 

“This is bullshit,” he says, to the lump on Connor’s bed. “I know I love you. And I don’t know if you do, really, but you told me you did and so I guess I have to take your word for it. But we’re both going to sleep tonight alone and miserable, and I think that’s bullshit.” 

Connor turns his bedside lamp on, then, illuminating the room in a soft glow. Jack steps inside and closes the door after himself and takes in the scene and his throat burns. Connor’s leaning up on one elbow looking Jack’s favorite way—soft and rumpled and _his. _

And he’s been crying, Jack thinks, because his eyes are red, and that knocks the fight right out of him. He steps closer, and Connor doesn’t say anything to stop him, so he steps closer again, and again, until he’s sitting on the side of the bed so close that he can feel the heat of Connor and smell his clean scent and almost touch him. He doesn’t, just breathes shakily and looks at his hands. 

Connor doesn’t speak, doesn’t even move, so eventually it’s Jack that has to say something. 

“I’m not asking you to come out, or tell anyone, or acknowledge this,” Jack says softly. “I would never do that. I’m just asking.” 

He takes a shaky breath, and chances looking up. Connor’s looking at him, steady and brave, and it breaks his heart. “I’m just asking you to let me love you,” Jack says. “I think I could—I'm not good at much, but I think. I could be good at that.” 

“Jack,” Connor says, and then he’s reaching up, turning Jack’s face into him, and they’re kissing. It’s only been, like, a week since they’ve done this. It feels like so much longer. 

Jack doesn’t say anything. It still feels like the last time, still might be, so he just kisses back, and let’s Connor push his shirt over his head, and tries to remember every moment of it—the way it feels when Connor pushes inside of him, the sounds he makes, the scent of his hair—just in case he never gets it again. 

Just hours ago he told Connor he was done, but here is is, flayed open for him again. He’s so weak, where Connor’s concerned. 

Connor doesn’t make him leave, afterwards. He curls up behind Jack, hand over his heart and face against his neck, and just as Jack is drifting off, he hears Connor whisper, “I missed you.” 

… 

The bed is empty, when Jack wakes. Empty and very cold, and the light coming through the windows is gray and anemic. 

Jack almost let himself walk away last night. He supposes that means that he has to be strong enough to do it for real now, even after. Everything. 

Connor never said anything back to him, he realizes all at once. Never agreed to let Jack love him, never said he wanted him beyond that kiss and everything that followed. 

It could have been a last goodbye, after all. Probably was, and Jack’s stupid to think otherwise. 

Only then the door opens and it’s Connor, shirtless and in Jack’s sweatpants, carrying two mugs. Jack’s heart gives one horrible thump and then his stomach lurches and he breaks out in a cold sweat, like he’s just now realizing what he could have lost. 

Or what he still could, really. 

“Hi,” Connor says, and toes the door shut behind himself. 

“You’re back,” Jack says dumbly. 

“Yeah, I—" Connor says, putting the mugs down on the bedside table and perching on the edge of the bed. Their positions are exactly reversed from last night, but Jack’s not holding out much hope for a repeat. “I’m sorry, I should have left a note. I thought I’d be back before you were up.” 

“Well,” Jack says, because he can’t say anything else, not until he knows how Connor’s feeling, but Connor’s face is as neutral as ever. He takes a swig of coffee instead, and it’s hot and doctored just the way Jack takes it and that makes things worse, somehow. 

Connor doesn’t say anything further. He sips from his own mug, which Jack knows has tea in it, one sugar, lemon, no cream. 

“I guess you missed your chance to sneak away,” Jack says, finally, looking down into his coffee. 

Connor puts his mug down with a click, and then his hand is on Jack’s jaw, urging it upwards, overwarm with residual heat. “I would never do that,” he says, and then takes Jack’s mug, as well, and puts it to the side. “Look at me,” he says, and Jack doesn’t, and he continues anyway, “especially after last night, I wouldn’t do that.” 

Jack does look at him, then. “Did you really think I would?” Connor asks him. 

Jack shrugs a little, face still held. “You never really said anything, last night. And historically, you, uh. Have run away from me.” 

Connor sighs, and drops his hand. Looks away. “I’m bad at this,” he admits. “I’m bad at... saying the things that I feel and asking for the things that I want.” 

“What do you want, then,” Jack says, because it’s easier than asking him what he feels. 

Connor scrubs his hands over his face and exhales, sharply. “You terrify me, you know,” he says. It’s not an answer, but Jack takes a page from his book, waits him out. It’s a move that always makes Jack confess more than he wants to, and he’s hoping it will work in reverse. 

“Not just because of the obvious, of what might happen if people found out,” Connor continues after a moment, “not even because I’m in love with you. And I am. Also because... you’re the bravest person I know, Jack. What you did last night, I would never have done, even though I regretted what I said as soon as I walked away. I regretted letting you go, but I did it. And it scares me that you were brave enough to come back and it scares me that I wouldn’t have been.” 

He goes quiet again, for long enough that Jack finally says, “that’s not an answer.” The inches of sheets between them feels like miles. 

“I want you,” Connor confesses. “And that scares me, too. But I do want you. I don’t know how that looks, or how that works, and I’m not sure I know how to want you in the ways that you deserve. But I do want to try.” 

“Oh,” Jack says, and then Connor’s kissing him again and his stomach is swooping for a whole different reason. “You can want me in whatever way you like,” he murmurs into Connor’s throat, and pulls him down to cover Jack’s body fully. 

“I want you in most ways,” Connor tells him. “I’m working on a list.” 

… 

Jack stays another day, shut off from the rest of the world in Connor’s wing of the palace. Some especially discreet servant delivers his luggage around noon, when Jack’s in the shower after round two. He knows this because Connor steps into the shower with him, to start round three, and says into the back of his neck, “I had your luggage brought over.” 

“Ah,” Jack says, because his body is actually protesting trying to get hard again so soon, but he’s also very into the way that Connor is mouthing at his neck, fingers dancing along his chest and stomach. 

Jack comes again before he has the presence of mind to say, “so you want me to stay?” 

He’s been teasing Connor all day—it feels good that he can. Making him ask for what he wants. 

“Yes,” Connor says, rolling his eyes a little. But he smiles, too. “I want you to stay.” 

… 

Connor wakes him up at the asscrack of dawn the next morning, and not for anything very fun, judging by the fact that he’s already dressed. Jack sort of resents it, but Connor hates early mornings more than even he does, which is how he knows it’s important. 

“Get dressed,” Connor whispers, “I want to take you somewhere.” 

Jack grumbles, but he rolls out of bed and slips on some jeans and a henley and then, after a look in the mirror, a hat. 

The streets are quiet, still dark. Their driver stops at a Tim Horton’s and orders two of whatever he must usually order for Connor, which turns out to be a large coffee, oversweet for Jack’s taste, and donut bites. 

“Good thing Noah’s not here,” Jack says through a mouthful. “He’d never let me live this down, cheating on Dunkin.” 

Noah had flown out the day before, classes and then finals on the horizon. Jack would feel worse about not seeing him again before he left, except that Noah had sent him a text when it became apparent that Jack wasn’t going to reemerge saying_ get __itttttttt _and then another one saying _love u bro, _which he doesn’t say often. 

Jack doesn’t realize where they're going until they’re already there, parking in front of the downtown arena. 

“What?” Jack says, blinking, and Connor smiles. 

“I know some people,” he says, “come on.” 

The arena is empty, the ice shiny and smooth. It smells like every rink Jack’s ever been to and that sends a pang of nostalgia through him. Connor squeezes his hand. 

“I, uh,” he says, sounding nervous. “I was thinking about what we were talking about before, like. What if we were normal people. And I thought if I was a normal guy, I would want to take you on a date. And if I was planning a normal date, with someone like you, I would want to take you to a hockey game. So. We’re not normal people, but.” 

“This is better,” Jack says. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, really,” Jack says, laughing a little in disbelief. Even Connor—even the Prince of fucking Canada—would have had to pull some major strings to get them here alone together with the full building at their disposal. “We’ve already been to a hockey game, and besides, I prefer playing. We are skating, right?” 

“Yeah,” Connor says, “come on, there’s skates and equipment laid out.” 

It’s been a while since Jack’s been on the ice, even longer since it’s been for anything like real skating. He takes a couple laps, slow and easy, feeling the way his body readjusts. Connor’s watching him, leaning on the boards and grinning. “You’re really good,” he says. 

“Yeah, well,” Jack shrugs, half modest, and then Connor laughs. 

“Yeah, well,” he mimics. “So am I,” and then he’s pushing off, skating away easily. Jack’s not trying, not pushing himself for top speed, but he has a feeling that Connor would be giving him a run for his money even if he were. He knew Connor had skated, had lessons, but he hadn’t known he would be this good. He should have guessed. 

He’s laughing before he can stop himself, and Connor snows him, grinning. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Jack says, “Just, I should have known. You’re good at everything.” 

“Not everything,” Connor says, wrinkling his nose. “You wanna play a little?” 

They’re closely matched—Jack’s rusty but Connor’s had less real experience. Neither of them are wearing pads or helmets, but Jack’s used to muscling people off the puck. He throws a playful hip check a little too hard and then catches an edge as Connor grabs at him and then they’re both tumbling down, sprawling out onto the ice. 

“Shit, sorry,” Jack says, breathless, but Connor’s laughing already, “are you okay?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Connor says. “Come here.” 

In all his years of playing hockey, not once did Jack ever have a teammate pull him down for a kiss after he laid a body check on them. He can’t say he minds. 

“This is nice,” he says, “I haven’t played in a long time.” 

“Mm,” Connor says against his lips, “let’s take a lap, I’m getting cold lying here.” 

He doesn’t let go of Jack’s hand as they push off, circling the ice slowly. It’s some real sappy shit, and Jack wishes he minded more. 

“You would have been great, in the NHL,” Connor says. “I would have wanted to watch you play.” 

“Eh,” Jack says. “You would have been better.” 

Connor turns to him, skating backwards. “Why do you do that?” he asks. 

“What?” 

“You put yourself down in strange little ways,” Connor says. “You’re confident, or pretend to be, but you say things sometimes that I don’t understand. About yourself. I wish you wouldn’t—there’s so much good in you to go around.” 

They’ve come to a stop, standing too close together. “I mean,” Jack says, and then falters, says again, “what?” 

“You always say you’re not good at things, or not good enough. I don’t see that at all. I know the media is hard on you and your mom is hard on you—I wish they weren’t—but I don’t get that perception of yourself at all. Most people find you charming. Relatable. Down-to-earth. We have our own media people, you know. I’ve spent a lot of my life being told to be more like you. More... what's the word you used? Real.” 

“You are real, though,” Jack says. “People love you. I spent most of my life—recently, at least—being told to act more like _ you. _ Have some dignity. Honestly that’s why I didn’t like you that much, at first. Always having your example shoved in my face.” 

“I thought you didn’t like me because of that hockey game,” Connor says. “The first one, at the Olympics.” 

“You were, to be fair, a total dick to me there.” 

“I was not!” 

“You were! You, like, ignored me the whole time, and then when I tried to talk to you, you all but told your security guy to get rid of me.” 

“I...” Connor says, blushing. “I had, like. This is embarrassing. I had the biggest crush on you, Jack. And I knew if you were right there I wouldn’t be able to keep from doing something stupid or saying something stupid.” 

“Oh,” Jack says, dumbfounded. 

“Yeah, oh. Plus, you weren’t exactly polite yourself.” 

“My country lost, dude, cut me a little slack!” 

Connor laughs, softly, starts skating backwards again. Jack trails behind him, a little helplessly. “If me from five years ago could see me now,” Connor says. “I still have a crush on you, for the record.” 

“No shit,” Jack says, but he pulls him in by the waist anyway, presses their lips together. “Guess I should give past you something to be grateful for, huh?” 

Connor kisses him again. “Don’t think I didn’t see that, what you did,” he says, “distracting me from what we were talking about. About how you see yourself. Don’t think we aren’t going to talk about it again.” 

“Can we not,” Jack says, pained. 

“No, we’re going to,” Connor says, but gentles it with a kiss. “I have to ask for what I want, you have to admit you’re worth wanting. But we can table it. Deal?” 

“Deal,” Jack says, grudgingly. 

“Good. Because I want to kiss you again, then I want to beat you at one-on-one. Then I want to take you home.” 

… 

Connor doesn’t accompany him to the airstrip, because there will most certainly be paparazzi and because neither one of them have a tremendous amount of control, at the moment. He does see Jack off at the front door of the palace, all buttoned up and ready for another appearance. 

He looks good, of course. He always does. He just doesn’t look like Jack’s, anymore. 

“Have a safe flight,” Connor says, pleasantly enough. His brother and sister-in-law are speaking with someone at the top of the staircase, not within hearing distance but certainly too close to embrace like they want to. The kiss Connor gave him before they left his rooms, up against the wall, will have to suffice. 

“Thank you,” Jack says, and then they’re shaking hands and it’s patently ridiculous except that Connor’s pressing something into his palm, and when Jack looks down there’s a Maple Leaf pin there and he realizes all at once that it’s no longer pinned to Connor’s lapel. 

“Connor—” he starts. 

“I want you to have it,” Connor says, softly and Jack opens his mouth to protest and he says, “Jack. I _want _you to have it.” 

Jack closes his fist around it, a pinprick of pain where the sharp edges of the leaf shape press into his palm. “Okay,” he says. 

“Have a safe flight,” Connor says. “I’ll talk to you very soon.” 

... 

In a lot of ways, it doesn’t get easier even after knowing they’re both on the same page. They’re still hiding and living apart, FaceTiming as often as they can and inventing excuses to see each other—Noah's graduation and a Fourth of July party with a truly spectacular re-creation of their first kiss that does not end with Connor walking out of the garden. Another week at the cabin where they can be themselves with their friends and, this time, with Jack’s sister, who vocally approves of Connor trying to _fuck some class into him _—her words. 

But sometimes, there’s a hand on his shoulder on election night, familiar and warm. 

“What are you doing here?” Jack says. “You’re supposed to be nonpartisan.” 

“I am,” Connor shrugs, “officially. Technically, I’m not here right now, and if someone takes pictures I was in town for a charity ball.” 

“Unofficially?” Jack asks. He’s a bundle of nerves and Connor’s presence, for once, isn’t making things better. His mom has a strong lead and a widely projected win, but nothing’s official until it’s over. 

“Is there somewhere private that we could chat?” Connor asks, extremely politely, which is how Jack knows that he’s thinking about fucking him stupid. 

“Um,” Jack says, looking around. “Not really. Not yet. Sorry.” 

Connor steps in, smiling a little. “As much as I want to get you alone, and I do, I was only going to say that you look nervous and I thought you could use some space.” 

“Oh.” 

“And that’s why I’m here, Jack. Because you’re here.” 

“Oh,” Jack says again, and he’d probably do something really stupid like kiss him, right there in front of everybody, but then poll numbers are coming in from a whole slew of swing states and he has to watch the screen nervously instead, cheering when the delegates roll in for his mother. 

He’s wearing a Maple Leaf pin on his suit, pinned backwards to the inside of his lapel where nobody can see. An American flag pinned to the front of his jacket. He has a hand pressed low on his back, subtly, invisible from the outside. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he tells Connor, once the room quiets. “About what to do next. And I still don’t know, really, except that I do have influence, and even if I didn’t ask for it or don’t want it, I have it. And I thought. Maybe it’s time to use it for something good. I’ve told my mom I'll start doing more for her. Things I actually care about. Working with kids, stuff like that.” 

Connor smiles at him. “There are a lot of global charities for children,” he says, “we may end up seeing more of each other. Board meetings and events and such. If you can stand the sight of me.” 

“I’ll pull through,” Jack says, rolling his eyes. “And I’ve been thinking, too. Four years really isn’t that long, in the scheme of things. Long enough for me to finish my degree. And in four years, my mom won’t be president anymore. I’ll just be a citizen. We could do whatever we want, then.” 

“I’ve been thinking, too,” Connor says. “I want to tell my family, soon. I want to be with you, for real. However that looks. Whenever you’re ready.” 

Another round of states report, more delegates for his mother. All but a guaranteed win. She blows him a kiss from across the room, Jess tucked under one of her arms, their dad throwing his hands into the air. She’s suspected about them for a while, now. Jack’s ready to admit it to her now, with Connor’s permission and the campaign in their rearview. 

Jack squeezes Connor’s hand, quick and hard. “Four more years,” he says. 

... 

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, folks. Plz, no politics here. This is a FANTASY where nobody is STUCK IN THEIR HOUSES.
> 
> For real tho--hope you all are doing well. we just got our 'stay at home' order through mid-April and while I'm lucky enough to still be working remotely full time, I will doubtless have tons of time on my hands. What I do with that time is still undecided.... 
> 
> Honestly this probs could have used another edit or two but I really just wanted to get it out there for ya. Hope it brings a brief respite from the #realworld
> 
> (in case it makes you feel any better about the US government--the line about the only scandals that can take someone down in Washington involving a dead girl or a live boy? Heard that one STRAIGHT from the mouth of a former staffer of a U.S. Senator. Fun stuff, kids.)


End file.
